They had been working so long that John had lost track of the days. Now that Simon Pritchard was finally in custody, John wanted nothing so much as an enormous fry-up, followed by a long nap.
John knew of two decent diners within walking distance. Sherlock trailed after, lost in thought and absently pliant.
One was bad luck, but two was a pattern; at the second dark door, John turned to Sherlock, strident in his frustration. "Can you explain this?"
Sherlock blinked himself back into the present and then chuckled. "It's Christmas."
John swore, and then wondered whether that was extra bad luck somehow. He didn't think he needed any more.
But anger took too much energy. He sighed and wiped his face with his hand. "What are we going to eat, then? We've absolutely nothing in."
"There's a good Chinese next block over." Sherlock turned and began walking. "Come on, my treat."
John trotted after him and fell into step. "Will they be open?"
"Of course," Sherlock replied. "People need a place to eat before going to the cinema."
John, somewhat revived by their brisk pace, took a risk. "Do you want to see a film as well, then?"
Sherlock gave a rare grin. "Why not? It is a holiday."
John couldn't help grinning back. The day was getting better.